My dad told me when I was young that nothing made him feel more at home than looking at the shitty weather as he drove home in a cab, a big suitcase next to him. I had been told about England and it's characteristics. About the Big Ben and tea and raincoats. It all seemed this picture the rest of the world had created. A stereotype. For example, I think more tourists than actual English people order an 'English breakfast'. I've seen them in the pubs, playing England, acting like they are tasting the culture when really they are just tasting in a commercial joke. When my plane landed I was no where near the Big Ben, but my dad was right about the rain.
I tried looking out of the cab window like he had, but it didn't work. Perhaps I just hadn't been a British critizen for too long to make it feel like home. I was probably about year ago when I last visisted, right after my exams. Skip one year forward and there I was again, on the same route to my dad's place. Only this time the rain seemed more depressing then before. Maybe there was an actual difference between the rain in Brighton and NYC. It was probably just the situation. Like the whole sky was sad for me, for my loss. But I guess you can't lose something that's never really been a part of you.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from none other than my dad.
Alex:
Glad you had a good flight. I'll see you in a bit.'
I put it away again and returned my gaze to the outside world. I was wrong before when I assumed that England is no different from The States. The houses were smaller, but also older and more cosy looking and the lawns weren't as big. The cab stopped in front of one of these houses.
A few moments later I'm inside, my coat laid out to dry, I myself laid out in a comfy chair. My thoughts were interrupted by my dads footsteps. He handed me one of the mugs and sat down opposite to me. You could tell by the way his house was decorated that he had been living alone for a while. It simply served the purpose of a home. Some would call him a minimalist.
It's not like he didn't have any girlfriend after my parents split up. But he's not really a family man and since most women he dated were aiming to really build a living together, it never really worked out. He took a sip from his tea and then looked at me, but didn't say anything. Probably just didn't have anything to say. By now we had gone past the: 'How's school?' questions. School had been okay, mostly because I just finished my junior year and had no more exams. There was not much to say about school, so the conversation had quickly gone dead.
"When are we going to grandma?" I asked. This input of new conversation topic seemed to live him up a little bit.
"Um- I was planning on going later this evening. So if you want to join in you are more than welcome." I replied with a simple 'okay'.
"Viv," he sais after a brief silence, "you know you don't have to go, right? Maybe it's just better if..." He trails off but I know what he means.
"No, I want to." Maybe it's because he wasn't there when I grew up, but sometimes he doesn't seem to realize that I'm an adult now or in this case, that the biggest part of my study is to cut open sick people. I know what they look like. I know they smell and feel like. It's all part of the job. Dad doesn't realize that. He still thinks pink is my favorite color. It never was.
I must say that what I've seen so far on this trip hasn't been too impressive. It was mostly the inside of cars and a view blocked out by the droplets that cover the windows. It's still raining. While I'm trying to make sense out of the clues of the world that we're passing by, during yet another car ride, my father is lecturing me on what I already know about my grandmothers illness.
"So, you probably shouldn't expect her to recognize you. She's mostly paralyzed and can't really express anything, so..." He trails of. He does that more often. "I don't really think there's she's going to be very talkative." Of course she wasn't. A very severe stadium of Parkinson disease, nearing the finish line. Pneumonia, like most of them die. The damage the disease has done to her nervus system has long taken away her ability to talk of swallow properly. In her case it has gone hand in hand with a kind of memory loss that is fairly relatable to Alzeimer, but not quite. You wouldn't call what is left as much as a human being as more of a bag of cells that were once self aware.
I seem really cold and emotionless while telling you all if this. It's because that's how I have to approach it. It's how I'm taught at uni. You can't save someone's life by worrying about their five childeren and unaccomplished life goals. That's not your task as a churgin. You have to fix the bag of cells so they can continue living. There's nothing human about that.
